Cast: Monica Del Carmen, Gustavo Sanchez Parra, Marco Zapata
These days, when a film is set in one room, this becomes the central focus for any critical discussion – Saw, Reservoir Dogs, Fermat’s Room, etc. But Michael Rowe’s stunning ‘Leap Year’ occupies its humble space so naturally that you almost never notice you haven’t left Laura’s stifling Mexico City apartment. We meet Laura on the first day of a leap year February, and our attention is naturally drawn to the 29th day. Rowe is in no rush to get there, however, and the film depicts Laura’s painful, monotonous life of canned food, vacant stares, and sordid, violent sex with virtual strangers.
When she meets Arturo, a man with a dark appetite for sado-masochistic roleplay, she seems to have found the perfect partner in crime. In one of the most disturbing pieces of filmmaking I have ever scene, Laura masturbates Arturo while explaining how she wants him to cut her open and strangle her and come inside her while the last breath rattles out of her body. Arturo, scared by his attraction to the idea, reluctantly agrees to return the following day (the 29th February) and live out the scenario. But will he materialise?
The premise of the film could have attracted an Eli Roth or some other exploitative non-entity; but in Michael Rowe’s hands it is a haunting and believable tale of desperation and lost hope. It is a film where almost nothing happens, but every moment is imbued with an agonising yet cathartic hopelessness. Del Carmen and Sanchez Parra are perfectly suited to the material – understated throughout, but capable of gutteral emotions that punch right out at the viewer’s solar plexus.
These days, when a film is set in one room, this becomes the central focus for any critical discussion – Saw, Reservoir Dogs, Fermat’s Room, etc. But Michael Rowe’s stunning ‘Leap Year’ occupies its humble space so naturally that you almost never notice you haven’t left Laura’s stifling Mexico City apartment. We meet Laura on the first day of a leap year February, and our attention is naturally drawn to the 29th day. Rowe is in no rush to get there, however, and the film depicts Laura’s painful, monotonous life of canned food, vacant stares, and sordid, violent sex with virtual strangers.
When she meets Arturo, a man with a dark appetite for sado-masochistic roleplay, she seems to have found the perfect partner in crime. In one of the most disturbing pieces of filmmaking I have ever scene, Laura masturbates Arturo while explaining how she wants him to cut her open and strangle her and come inside her while the last breath rattles out of her body. Arturo, scared by his attraction to the idea, reluctantly agrees to return the following day (the 29th February) and live out the scenario. But will he materialise?
The premise of the film could have attracted an Eli Roth or some other exploitative non-entity; but in Michael Rowe’s hands it is a haunting and believable tale of desperation and lost hope. It is a film where almost nothing happens, but every moment is imbued with an agonising yet cathartic hopelessness. Del Carmen and Sanchez Parra are perfectly suited to the material – understated throughout, but capable of gutteral emotions that punch right out at the viewer’s solar plexus.
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